The Persnickety Classical Music Critic Caves

(Part III of “Alex Ross and the Future of Classical Music“. Part I | Part II )

Ross’s was soon firing on all cylinders, with one article after another devoted or related to black musicians. Troublingly, scarcely a word of actual criticism can be located in any of them. For a self-described “persnickety classical music critic,” ^[1]The Musicological Zest of Switched on Pop he becomes remarkably stingy with the lukewarm assessments and snide remarks he lops at white artists both present and past.

The white tenor Jonas Kaufman’s recital at Carnegie Hall “leaves questions about the depth of his artistry,” but the black bass-baritone Davone Tines is “changing what it means to be a singer” by “challenging the conventions of classical music, tackling themes of race and sexuality.” In an article on Marian Anderson, Ross describes her “towering historical stature,” reminding us that she (unlike Leonard Bernstein) “attained that status first and foremost because of the magnificence of her musicianship.” The black composer Julius Eastman “has now become part of history […], all the more influential for being impossible to define.” There are two effusive recent articles on composer Tyshawn Sorey, “Music Fills the Rothko Chapel”, and another written ahead of the political game in 2019, “The Shape-Shifting Music of Tyshawn Sorey.” There was an article on the Metropolitan Opera premiere a

work by Terrence Blanchard. In “Keep Beethoven Weird“, Ross relates how “the coronavirus pandemic essentially wiped out the Beethoven [Anniversary] Year; virtual seasons often turned in a different direction, placing a welcome emphasis on Black composers.” But elsewhere^[2]“What Does It Mean to Reimagine an Orchestra Season?” Ross complains that “[e]ven a welcome concentration on works by African-American composers, in recognition of Black Lives Matter protests, leaned too much on a few names, with wide swaths of Black music left unexplored.”

The picture emerges that it not the talents, accomplishments, or musical depth of any these artists that is most important, but their race. Good and even great as many of these talents may be, there are so many questions to wonder about. Which black artists, and which black readers of The New Yorker, feel more than a little doubt about all this sudden attention? Who senses the unmistakable pandering? Which black artists suspect they are being reviewed with quite different purposes from white artists? Even if that is itself a step in the right direction, who, at the same time, perceives two or more steps in the wrong direction? This is an intricate and confusing form of diversity and inclusion. And it is sure a far cry from sitting under cactus trees in Santa Monica sipping espresso with Esa-Pekka Salonen.

If hero worship is as perilous as Ross’s headline warns, take heart: the coast is clear. No musician of any race or gender mentioned anywhere here threatens to provoke mass idolatry for longer than a few moments. Artistic standards are replaced everywhere by good intentions. Good intentions give way easily to political expedience. The door opens for a stampede of attempts at “bold originality.” Praise in The New Yorker can be landed using golf balls, Mason jars, homemade videos, announcements, or just trying really hard at almost anything.

In Ross’s hands, the present — not to dare broach the future — of classical music is a jumble of mixed messages, condescension, and downright incoherence. Brahms and Wagner are thrown right in with any cockamamie stunt that will stick momentarily to the wall. It is difficult to take in this bizarre and indiscriminate picture without suspecting the problem is not with Ross, but that he followed the whole business down a wrong turn somewhere, and no one has noticed they are all lost.

If Ross is right and the culture that fostered Leonard Bernstein was so crucial to his success, then the reason why there will not be another should be excruciatingly clear. But Ross is wrong on the one thing most important to be right about: the real problem is that comparable talent is nowhere to be found. Not even close. And certainly not among any of Alex Ross’s subjects. Bernstein’s imitators and detractors alike are enough to cause flushed embarrassment

Furthermore, given what still good and even great talent there actually is, Alex Ross is unable to tell it apart from anything else. What is worse, he seems to want us all to pretend we cannot either. Far from waiting for the next superstar, or even wondering nervously whatever other inanity the future holds, we might seriously consider throwing the whole problematic American classical music business out with the garbage, smug critics and all, and start over. If the future of classical music is waiting on anyone, it is someone who can find a way out of this terribly sad situation.